Frozen Oceans
by SolarRose29
Summary: He nods and obeys and maybe even smiles with skeleton teeth, and all the while the dead branches of dead trees inside his dead heart scrape at a house which is dead and empty because everyone he loves is dead and gone.


When Steven Rogers is five years old, he is cold. He's a tiny figure in a world turned silver by December's embrace. Automobiles turn the streets to fluffy slush, while snowflakes drift on invisible currents of swirling air. It's a beautiful thing. It feels like magic to have the little circles of white settle on his thin cheeks. They tickle, laugh and dance as he blinks wondering eyes. Once they tire of his skin, they melt, disappearing inside of him and transferring their temperature from their bodies to his. The world is bright, Christmas is coming and Steve cups the snow fairies with bare fingers.

When his mother's soul finally flees the torment of her diseased body, Steven Rogers is cold. He stands in the shadowed courtyard of the small church. The reverend raises hands which have had all the life shook out of them by somber-faced churchgoers, and mutters a final prayer. As Steve drags his feet over the crumpled October leaves that turn to dust beneath his flat shoes, he feels the cold and it feels like it's always been there. He closes his eyes and sees two headstones and that's how it's always been and how it always will be. Walking home alone, Steve tries not to dwell on the empty house he knows is waiting for him.

When his country is forcefully thrown into the bloodiest war in history, Steven Rogers is cold. He's seen enough of the ghosts which haunt the eyes of the old men in his neighborhood to know that freedom comes at a cost. The price sends shivers down his spine. It's the beginning of something terrible and the anticipation spreads a September chill through his limbs. But he has a duty and he will perform it, no matter how many obstacles he must overcome in order to do so. Despite the repeated humiliation of rejection, Steve will not back down.

When an experimental procedure transforms him from a near invalid into the epitome of human perfection, Steven Rogers is cold. It's the rush of chocolate ice cream in his veins as his body is torn apart atom by atom-shredded, splintered and shattered from the inside out, only to be rebuilt a thousand times stronger. Drug store soda shoots through his bones as he chases a murderer and discovers he can finally run without his lungs self-destructing. His body exudes power, power he's never had, never dreamed of, and the weight of responsibility dangles icicles off his ribs. Fresh watermelon splashes as Steve comes to terms with the metamorphosis of his body.

When Peggy Carter comes into his life, Steven Rogers is cold. Her level of determination could match his own and the bright light of her intelligence is matched by the sparkle in her eye. Never sure of whether he stands in her good graces and holds her affections, he wanders the crisp November of unknowable mysteries known as Woman. She snaps out a smart comment in her sharp English accent and his knees go weak and all he can do is stare after her. The single kiss Steve shares with her tastes like cinnamon spice, firm apples and golden leaves.

When his USO tour brings him to Europe, Steven Rogers is cold. He feels like a fool, spinning on marionette strings in front of a crowd he has no business standing before. Slippery rain slides between the shiny fabric of his silly costume and the damp sinks through cloth, through skin, through muscles, right to his core. It's slimy garbage sticking to his face when the bullies shove him down in a back alley. He feels useless and this isn't why he risked everything to become a science project. Knowing he's nothing but a joke, Steve struggles to reconcile that with his dreams of valor, courage and honor.

When a shield becomes his weapon and the symbol of his country, Steven Rogers is cold. He kills men. They are evil men and they need to be stopped. But that doesn't make their blood any less real when it paints his conscience as he brings their lives to an end. He's seen things and done things that leave him trembling in the muddy depths of his nighttime musings. The only way to prevent death is to give it to those who would abuse it and he does so unfailingly. He tastes violence and swallows it whole, even as it freezes the marrow in his bones. Steve is a soldier.

When the only brother he's ever known falls to his death, Steven Rogers is cold. Bucky Barnes falls and falls and Steve hears him scream and he screams too. Then the January cold brings a new year he never could have foreseen, sweeping into his mouth and collecting around his heart, making it stone cold. It never quite thaws. The train moves and he numbly watches his fingers hold on to the train even when they couldn't hold on to Bucky and he wonders if he even has fingers. He can't feel them. He can't feel the toes which are miserable lumps in his boots. Can't feel the neck that bows, the head that leans into the gray metal. Can't feel the backbone that aches or the shoulders that stoop or the blue eyes that leak icy tears. Steve is done feeling.

When he wakes after being entombed in arctic ice, Steven Rogers is cold. His lungs move, his chest rising and falling as he listens to lies, and looks at a world he doesn't recognize. But inside, he is dead. SHIELD explains and excuses and orders and commands. He nods and obeys and maybe even smiles with skeleton teeth, and all the while the dead branches of dead trees inside his dead heart scrape at a house which is dead and empty because everyone he loves is dead and gone. There's no going back to the life he had but he can't move forward with the life he has and he's stuck in the eternal hopelessness of February's never-ending reign of death. They ask him if he is going to be alright, if he's fine, if he can still function and serve, fight and protect. He can. Steve is okay but he is also dead.

When a handful of damaged, haunted and bruised superheroes are thrust into his care, Steven Rogers is cold. He's still new to this world which has kept on spinning while he slept and now he's expected to lead a group of individuals who are all as scarred as he is. They may not have wounds in the same places, but they all have scabs that ooze pus and weep blood. He has pale moonlight doubts about whether he has the strength they need, the conviction they deserve, to be their commander. But they go where he leads and trust his directions and it's delicate frost on glass window panes, and glittering dew drops. It feels like March, where the temperature is cool but the sun shines and the promise of Spring is in the air. Steve hopes he'll soon be warm.


End file.
